"A life whose waste
Ravaged each bloom by which its path was traced,
Sporting at will, and moulding sport to art,
With what sad holiness--the human heart."
It is a bright, crisp morning, and there is a gathering round the hall
door of Kerton Manor.
To the right is Sir Henry Fallowfield, already established on the broad
tack of his shooting pony, an invaluable animal, that can leap or creep
wherever a man can go, and steady under fire as old Copenhagen. The
baronet is very gouty. The whip made out of his favorite vices cuts him
up sharply at times, and he does not like it alluded to. I never saw him
look so savage at Guy as when the latter quoted, _"Raro antecedentem
scelestum Deseruit pede poena claudo."_ Of course, he can not walk
much; but, placed in a ride, or at the corner of a cover, he rolls over
the hares and pulls down the pheasants unerringly as ever; when you come
up, you will find him surrounded by a semicircle of slain, and not a
runner among them.
The battle of life has left its tokens on the face of the strong,
skillful Protagonist. The features, once so finely cut, are somewhat
full and bloated now; but it is a magnificent ruin, and there are traces
yet of "the handsomest man of his day." Very expressive are his glances
still; a little too much so, some people think, when he is criticising a
figure or a face; but, to do him justice, _gourmandise_ is his pet
weakness now, a comparatively harmless one; and a delicate _entremet_
will bring the light into his eyes that only war or love could do in the
old days.
By Sir Henry's side, encouraging him with great prophecies of sport,
stands Mallett, the head-keeper. What a contrast his fresh, honest face
makes with the veteran _roué's_! He is the elder of the two by a good
ten years, and there is scarcely a wrinkle on his ruddy cheeks and
smooth forehead. Wind and weather have used him with a rough kindness,
and his foot is almost as light, his hand quite as heavy, as when he
entered the service of Guy's grandfather half a century ago. For
generations his family have been devoted to the preservation of game;
his six stalwart sons are all eminent in that line; and the "Kerton
breed" of keepers is renowned throughout the Midland shires. He is a
prime favorite with the village children and their mothers, for, in all
respects save one, his heart is as soft as a woman's; to poachers it is
as the nether millstone. There is the stain of a "justifiable homicide"
on the old man's hands--the blood of an antagonist slain in fair fight,
in those rough times when the forest was, and marauders came out by
scores to strike its deer. I do not think the deed has weighed heavily
on his conscience (though he never has spoken of it since), or troubled
his healthy, honest slumbers.
To the left is Guy, repressing the attentions of four couple of strong
red and white spaniels, but _not_ those of Miss Bellasys, who, standing
at the oriel window of the library, is good-natured enough to fasten the
band of his wide-awake for him, which has come undone. As he stands
with his towering head a little bent, murmuring the "more last words,"
Sir Henry, contemplating the picture with much satisfaction, smacks his
lips, and suggests "Omphale."
Last of all, Mr. Raymond comes slowly down the staircase, followed by
his son-in-law that is to be. Forrester and I have been ready long ago,
so we start.
Bruce did shoot, certainly, if discharging his gun on the slightest
provocation constituted the fact; but he shot curiously ill. Indeed, he
might have formed a pendant to that humane sportsman who, having taken
to rural sports _sero sed serio_, said, in extreme old age, "that it was
a satisfaction to him to reflect that he could not charge himself with
having been, wittingly, the death of more than a dozen of his
fellow-creatures."
It was a problem whereon Mallett ruminated gravely long
afterward--"Wherever Mr. Bruce's shot do go to?" He could not conceive
so much lead being dispersed in the atmosphere without a more adequate
result. This want of dexterity, too, was thrown into strong relief that
day; for all the other men, putting myself out of the question, were
rare masters of the art.
Livingstone headed the list, though Fallowfield ran him hard. He got the
most shots, indeed; for his knowledge of the woods and great strength
enabled him always to keep close to the spaniels. He was a sight to
marvel at, as he went crashing through bramble and blackthorn with a
long even stride, just as if he had been walking through light springs.
At the end of the day we were all assembled outside the cover, where the
game was being counted, except Bruce, who was still in the wood. A stray
shot every now and then gave notice of his approach.
"We heard but the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing,"
Guy quoted, laughing.
"Random! you may say that," remarked Fallowfield. "That man ought to be
in a glass case, and ticketed; he's a natural curiosity. His bag to-day
consists of one hare, one hen, and one--sex unknown, for no one saw it
rise or tried to pick it up; it was blown into a cloud of feathers
within six feet of his muzzle. Here he comes; don't ask him what he's
done--it's cruelty."
Bruce came up to us, looking rather more discontented than usual, but
not nearly so savage as the keeper who had attended him all day, who
immediately retreated among his fellows to relieve himself, by many
oaths, of his suppressed disgust and scorn. They offered him beer, but
it was no use. I heard him growl out, "That there muff's enough to spile
one's taste for a fortnit."
It was the hour of the wood-pigeons coming in to roost, and several were
wheeling over our heads at a considerable height.
"There's something for you to empty your gun at, Bruce," Sir. Raymond
said, pointing to one that came rather nearer than the rest.
He was leveling, when Forrester cried out, "Five-and-twenty to five on
the bird!"
"Done!" answered Bruce, as he pulled the trigger. It was a long and not
very easy shot, but the pigeon came whirling down through the tranches
with a broken pinion.
"You are unlucky in your selection, Captain Forrester," the successful
shot remarked, coolly. "You might have won a heavy stake by laying the
same odds all day."
"It serves you right," interposed Guy, "for speaking to a man on his
shot. Don't you remember quarreling with me the other day for doing so,
Charley?"
Charley's face of perplexity and disgust was irresistible. We all
laughed. "What a _guignon_ I have," he said. "Mr. Raymond, I believe you
were in the robbery."
"Not I," was the answer. "I was as much surprised as any one. I think,"
he went on, lowering his tone, "Guy is right; he changed his aim, as you
spoke, involuntarily, or he _must_ have missed."
Then we turned homeward through the twilight.
I do not know if the reminiscence of his lost "pony" was rankling in
Forrester's mind, or if he was only affected by the presence of Sir
Henry Fallowfield--an immoral Upas, under whose shadow the most
flourishing of good resolutions were apt to wither and die; but
certainly, after dinner, he broke through the cautious reserve which he
had always in public maintained toward Miss Raymond since Bruce's
arrival. He not only talked to her incessantly, but tempted her to sing
with him, during which performance they seemed rapidly lapsing into the
old confidential style.
Bruce sat apart, the shades on his rugged face gradually deepening from
sullenness into ferocity. He looked quite wolfish at last, for it was a
habit he had to show his white teeth more when he was savage than when
he smiled. But the music went on its way rejoicing,
"Unconscious of their doom,
The little victims played."
Isabel was too happy, and Charley too careless to be prudent. Once I
caught his glance as it crossed with Bruce's scowl. There was an
expression on his pleasant face that few men had ever seen there,
approaching nearly to an insolent defiance. Looking at those two, a
child might have known that between them there was bitter hate.
But what of that? Are not the laws of society and the amenities of
civilized life supreme over such trifles as personal animosities? How
many women are there who never meet without mingling in a close embrace,
when each is to the other a Brinvilliers in heart? My gentle cousin
Kate, only last night I saw you greet your intimate enemy. It was the
moat gushing thing I ever imagined. The kisses were profuse and
tantalizing in the extreme; yet I wish, if thoughts could kill, dearest
Emma's neck would have been safer in the hug of a Norway bear than in
the clasp of your white willowy arms.
Are there not men, sitting constantly at each other's tables, who, in
the Golden Age, when people spoke and acted as they felt, would only
have encountered at the sword's point?
If we hear that our mortal foe is ruined irretrievably, we betray no
indecorous exultation, but smile complacently and say, "We are not
surprised;" or, if we have the chance, give him a last push to send him
over the precipice on whose brink he is staggering. But as for any
violent demonstration--bah! the _Vendetta_ is going out of fashion, even
in Corsica, nowadays; only on the boards of the "Princess's" does it
have a run.
It is better so. Is it not far more creditable and less ridiculous for
two of our reverend seniors, between whom there exists a deadly feud, to
comport themselves with decent reserve toward each other, than to go
vaporing about on crutches, stamping the foot that is not gouty, and
blaspheming in a weak, cracked treble, like Capulet and Montague? Hot
rooms and cold draughts are dangerous, but not so fatal as the Aqua
Tofana, and other pleasant beverages more revolting and rapid in their
effects. Could any thing be more harrowing to a well regulated mind than
to see, in the midst of a neatly-turned compliment, one's partner
literally _look black_ at one, and expire incontinently in great
torments?
It is less romantic, but I prefer to be given an unmedicated rose. When
I win a pair of gloves, it is a satisfaction to me to reflect that in
Houbigant or Pivert there is no venom or guile.
All these consoling thoughts, and more, passed through my mind that
evening; yet I could not get rid of a strange, indistinct impression
that it was only the presence of Livingstone which averted some great
danger imminent over his cousin and Forrester.